wine after whiskey
by tombombadillo
Summary: "You know, I remember being told by a certain morgue technician that I shouldn't get into a drinking competition with you because you would drink me under the table. Where did that Kate go?" - set between S4 and S5.


**Happy Birthday, my princess Merida. Have fun no longer being a teenager, welcome to the joyousness that is your twenties. I love you darling, please never change. (I'm sorry, this is actually terrible).**

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It's the first time in a long time that she's been this drunk, and it's the first time in a longer time that she'd had this amount of trouble trying to get her damn key in the door. She thinks that's probably more to do with Castle's _hand_ that is currently well and truly down the front of her jeans.

It had started completely innocently. A couple of drinks in the Old Haunt had turned into four and that had turned into eight and before she'd known it she'd been pressed bodily against the back of the booth with Castle's mouth doing unspeakable things to her collarbone. Of course, Jason, bartender extraordinaire had come over to the table and coughed rather loudly at that point and two minutes after that she was being ushered out of the bar with Castle very close behind.

The infuriating man had kept his hands completely to himself the entire cab ride back to her apartment, and she'd spent the twenty minutes sitting on the leather seat wanting nothing more than to have her wicked way with him in the back of the car, driver and any shred of public decency be damned. Then they'd _finally_ reached her front door and she'd barely had time to get her hand in her jacket pocket before his fingers were working their devilish magic on her zipper.

She gaps when he runs one finger through her folds, her free hand curled into a fist against the door. She can practically feel the lewd grin against her neck because she is so god damn turned on right now and she doesn't even give a damn if he makes her come right her right now because she thinks she might explode if she doesn't.

"Do you need some help with that?"

His voice is smooth, smooth like that damn whiskey he plied her with, and it's too much, it's all too much. Her hips jerk backwards, her ass colliding with the curve of his pelvis and the hard, solid line of his erection. She can't help but move in jerky circles, trying to disrupt the handle he has on his control. "I don't know, do you?" she can't help but reply, her voice hitching in all of the wrong places. Damn him, damn him, damn him.

It seemed to work because he presses against her harder, more pressure, quicker, circles, bites at the curve of her neck and a wiggle of his hand (doesn't know how he did it, her jeans are _tight_) and he's sliding one finger into her, thick and it's not what she needs but _oh god_ doing this outside is so fucking doing it for her and the smug asshole at her back knows it and oh "_shit, Castle_, oh-_fu-_" his free hand covers her mouth as her thighs shake with the force of her orgasm, and she can't help but bite at the soft flesh at his palm. He growls, withdraws his hand slowly (which just makes her groan again) and sucks whatever of her is on his fingers into his mouth. "And you said you'd never let me do that outside."

She doesn't deign him a reply, just manages to use the reprieve to jam her key into the lock and twist it, pushing open the door and reaching for him all in the same instant. She grabs him by the belt buckle (didn't mean to get that low, was just reaching for his shirt, but it'll do) and forcefully drags him into the privacy of her entry way. Castle gives the door one swift kick to the door and it's closing and she could push him up against it and use her mouth to leave him a quivering mess of bones and muscle until not even he could string a cohesive sentence together. But it's not good enough, not good enough for the heat scratching at her skin, scorching through her veins, and it's been so long since she was this kind of drunk she almost forgot how alcohol always makes everything ten times _more_.

Apparently she's not calling the shots tonight. She has done, maybe, for the past week, and Castle has let her get away with it, but tonight it seems he's going to be the one in charge. The way his hand cradles the back of her head, soft, secure, fingers buried in her hair belies the way his mouth is hard and bruising on hers, relentless and unforgiving, and who even needs oxygen anyway, she just never wants him to _stop_. His other hand, she'd completely forgotten about, so distracted was she by his teeth biting at her lip, was tugging at her soft cotton jumper, trying to get it over her head. There was nothing she could do about that because he was the one that was blocking its way. He relents in his thorough exploration of her mouth just for a moment so he can pull the jumper from her body. He doesn't stop there. Tugs at her jeans until they're pooled around her feet.

"Damn you and your heels, Beckett." He grumbles, but she's already kicking them off, thankful that they don't require a zip or buttons or anything other than a strong pair of feet.

"You weren't complaining the other week."

"Well I wasn't trying to get your clothes off last week."

"Speaking of which – you have far too many clothes on." She starts to work on his buttons even as she talks, tugging at the silk material until it's hanging loose from his shoulders. It takes him two seconds to shake it into a puddle on the floor, but she doesn't care, is too busy working at his belt and zipper. She mirrors his actions from before, her hand slipping inside the waistband of his boxers and stroking his length. Castle hisses, his eyes fluttering closed as she bites her lip, but it doesn't last long. He's pulling her hands away from him, holding them both high in the air with one of his while the other one tugs his trousers down his legs and away from him.

Her bra, black and lacy and strapless, is gone with one easy flick of his fist, falling to her feet in a whisper against her skin. It's summer, and the heat is relentless, but the air conditioning in her apartment leaves her with goose bumped skin, and she shivers. "Kneel on the sofa. Face the window."

She follows his orders, hands gripping the grey material and waits for him to join her. It's not long until his hand finds the curve of her ass, nails pressing crescent moons into the skin. His fingers pluck at the thin string of her underwear before pulling them aside. She can imagine him taking himself in hand, and judging by his laboured breathing he's stroking himself, squeezing, twisting at the top (she knows his preferences off by heart already, even though it's only been a month). Then he's pushing himself through her folds, coating himself in her arousal, and every time he brushes her clit she grunts, head bowed.

"_Castle_." she grits out between clenched teeth. If he doesn't do anything productive soon she's going mutiny, she's going to take whatever power he thinks he has and ride him until she can't walk.

"Are you always this needy when you're drunk?"

"No," she gasps, as he pushes in, inch by inch, "Just really, really hor – oh, _fuck_- I-"

"I missed that part." He growls, stilling in his movements. He's buried deep in her, to the hilt. Hot and hard and the perfect fit and _not moving_.

She pushes her hips back into him, but he only gives her the chance to do it once, pushes into her again so forcefully she's pushed forward, practically leaning over the back of the sofa, one of her hands moving up to slam against the glass of the window. He's relentless in his thrusts, a punishing rhythm that leaves her gasping for breath.

"Put the other one – up –" he growls again.

She does as requested, the arch of her back changing the depth and the rhythm. He takes it slower this time allowing her to catch her breath. His hand winds in to her hair pulls it back so her head is forced upwards. She's almost sobbing with need at this point, her nails scratch at the glass and she doesn't even care that were anyone to look up at her window then they would see her – see them both.

"Castle – Castle – I need – _please_-"

She can tell by the way he's grunting that he really won't last that long and he wriggles his hand between the tight space between sofa and her – something he seems to be rather talented at – rubs tight little circles on her clit. "Come on, Kate, come on."

"_Harder_."

She almost screams when he starts pounding into her again, she's going to have bruises in the morning but she doesn't care – can't bring herself to care not when the cliff – the fall is just seconds away. Then he pushes – just _there_ – and she can't hold in the long moan that works its way up her throat, echoes through the cool air of her apartment. Her hands slip from the glass without her permission and she almost falls over the back of the sofa. Would have done if it weren't for Castle's arm banding around her chest and holding her up. His thrusts prolong her orgasm, less than a tsunami and more like wave after wave after wave that just refuses to give up.

And then Castle is groaning into her shoulder and the short jerky thrusts of his hips as he comes just make her fall again. She sobs as she starts to come down, the feelings too much, even as Castle presses his lips, calm and soothing to the sweaty skin at the back of her neck.

"You okay?"

She nods, tipping her head back to rest it on hi shoulder. Her chest heaves against his arm as she gets the much needed oxygen back into her lungs. "We shouldn't have had that wine." She sighs on a laugh. "It's a bad idea to mix your drinks."

"Mm, we'll probably regret in the morning." His hands stroke at her sides, gentle, and then he moves away, slipping out of her with a regretful sigh. "Bed?"

She hums, but she finds herself slipping sideways even as he suggests it. It wouldn't be the first time she's slept on it. "Kaate. Come on."

"Can't."

"Do I have to carry you?"

"No – no, I'll just… sleep here. I got a blanket. You…" she waves her hand towards her bedroom. "Bedroom is all yours."

"Not likely." He wraps his hands around hers and pulls her up into a sitting position, and then up until she's standing.

She sways, ends up leaning against him. "M'drunk." She giggles. "We're both…"

"Kinda drunk, yeah. You know, I remember being told by a certain morgue technician that I shouldn't get into a drinking competition with you because you would drink me under the table. Where did that Kate go?"

"I wasn't trying." Kate mumbles against his shoulder. "I was just… having a few drinks with my partner."

"Okay then. Come on."

He leads her towards the bedroom, but she's still rather awake and the entire journey there is spent with her tickling his rib cage. Eventually he caves, turns around and kisses her, his hands trailing down her own rib cage, skating over her hip bones and the tops of her thighs until she's sighing into his mouth.

"You know…" she hums, her hands drifting south to find him semi-hard, "if we don't sleep… the less likely we are to get a hangover."

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